


Chance Meetings

by Zetared



Category: Daredevil (TV), Jessica Jones (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-17
Updated: 2015-12-17
Packaged: 2018-05-07 07:02:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5447513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zetared/pseuds/Zetared
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Foggy is Kilgraved. He goes to Malcolm's recovery meetings. They hit it off.</p><p>--</p><p>This is a work that I wanted to expand but just...got stuck. The ending is therefore probably unsatisfactory. I've misnamed the cellist, here, because I hadn't finished JJ, yet, upon writing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chance Meetings

The first thing Malcolm notices about the new guy is that he needs help _right now_. It’s a strange, jarring experience. Most of the members of the support group are—at least in terms of time—distanced from their experiences with Kilgrave. Their traumas are still present, still painfully recent, but they’ve had time to process it, time to reflect.

The new guy has the glassy-eyed, blank-faced look of someone who has just walked away from a ten-car pileup. He looks about as beat up, too, though most of the damage is covered in haphazard Band-Aids. The biggest one, holding a split together over one of those glazed-over eyes, is printed with big red and pink hearts. It’s a surreal juxtaposition between childish cheeriness and an all too adult despair. Malcolm resists the urge to jump to his feet, to yelp in horror and surprise. He’s proud of his group that they all do the same. Everyone holds very still. It’s quiet for a long time.

“Hello,” Malcolm finally says, as casually as he can. “We’ve just started. Would you like to sit down?”

The group works hard not to throw direct commands around. Every question has to be considered, and there must always be some kind of out. It’s not always successful, but the attempt is appreciated, and the sense of regained self-control is enormous. It’s the little things.

The man sits. He’s still staring rather blankly ahead. His suit is ripped, the sleeve pulling away from its seam, loose threads everywhere. It could be a bizarre pseudo-metaphor for the man’s own fragile grasp on his composure, from the looks of him, but Malcolm chooses not to dwell on it.

“Do you want to tell us your name?”

That makes the man blink, and for the first time since coming into the diner, he seems to know where he is. He clears his throat before speaking, as if the words are lodged there. “Uh. Foggy. Foggy Nelson.”

Everyone murmurs a greeting. Malcolm offers the man a broader smile. “It’s nice to meet you, Foggy. Do you want to share, today, or just listen? Both are fine.”

Foggy looks around the table. His eyes rest on each person individually—it’s not a long pause, just a few seconds, but it’s enough for Malcolm to understand that Foggy is really _looking_ at everyone, giving each person their own tiny moment of consideration. Malcolm feels immediately sad, because it’s the sort of kindness that you can’t manufacture, a goodness so entrenched that even when clearly reeling from his own personal trauma, Foggy Nelson is reaching out to those around him, just a bit.

Malcolm’s suspicions about Foggy’s nature are confirmed when, after refusing his opportunity to speak, Foggy listens with clear intensity to everyone else who chooses to share. At one point, the cellist, Elizabeth, recalls how she can never again play the song Kilgrave demanded, how all attempts to regain control over the piece leave her nauseated and afraid. Foggy, sitting next to her, makes a small sound of sympathy. He reaches out, a hand hovering a respectful distance from her own, unbroken fingers. Elizabeth doesn’t hesitate to take the offered support. She grips Foggy’s hand so tightly that her knuckles go white and his own fingers must be crushed. Even so, Foggy smiles at her, warm and receptive. A helper. Malcolm has come to know what heroes look like, and Foggy Nelson is definitely one.

Which may be why it’s so shocking when, as everyone starts to gather themselves up to leave, Foggy hands Elizabeth his card and says, brightly, “I’m a lawyer.” Malcolm blinks, flabbergasted by this insight. “That’s my office number, but you can call whenever you want.”

Elizabeth smiles and takes the card amiably. Malcolm frowns, taking a step forward as Foggy starts to depart. “You’re a lawyer?”

Foggy turns a little. “Oh. Yeah. Nelson and Murdock.”

“You’re a partner?”

“It’s a small practice. My friend and I operate out of Hell’s Kitchen.”

“Defense?”

Foggy’s smile is self-deprecating, which is sad all over again for reasons Malcolm can’t quite place. “Most of the time.”

“Can I have a card?” Malcolm blurts.

Foggy’s eyebrows raise a little, which causes him to tense a little in pain. That cut really needs stitches. “Of course. Are you in trouble?”

The card is professionally printed but not very fancy, just dark letters on plain white cardstock. Foggy isn’t carrying very many of them. “No. But I have a friend who is, sometimes. We know a lawyer, but she’s kind of awful.”

Foggy makes the same sympathetic noise he’d made over Elizabeth’s sharing session before. “Yeah. I know a few of those, too. Well. You should call. Or your friend should, I guess. Frankly, we could really use the cases.” He smiles again, and it’s self-deprecating, but in a way that is a lot less depressing to witness.

Foggy gives a little awkward wave and goes to leave again but Malcolm stops him with another step forward, hand raised a little in the gulf of space between them. “You know, you don’t have to talk to the whole group, if you don’t want to. I’m here now, and I’m happy to listen.”

The breath Foggy releases is shaky and thin. “I…I can’t. Not right now. I’m glad this group exists, and I’ll totally come back. But I just…”

“It’s okay,” Malcolm rushes to assure him, because it is. It’s totally okay. “I just.” _I just want to help_. And that’s true of everyone, really. Malcolm has always wanted to help. But with this new guy, the need is much more urgent. Ten-car pile ups are a hellish thing to go through alone.

“It’s okay. Later, maybe. Maybe next time. I gotta go. A friend is waiting for me.”

Oh, that was okay, then. It was good that Foggy Nelson had friends. Malcolm was actually kind of envious.

“See you later, then, Mr. Nelson.”

Foggy’s smile was subdued but clearly genuine. “You can just call me Foggy.” And then he was gone and Malcolm stood for a while in the diner, trying to reconcile with the renewed desire within him to punch Kilgrave repeatedly in the face.

\--

Lying to Matt totally _sucks_. Lying to Matt after chastising him repeatedly for, you know…also lying…sucks even MORE. To be fair, secret vigilantism is way worse than covering up a tiny, inconsequential, not even remotely important…

The words dwindle before Foggy can quite fabricate them. A lot of words were tossed around in the support group meeting that seemed viable. Assault. Attack. Violation. Foggy pushes that all aside. He’s glad he didn’t speak up during the meeting. It would have been really petty and selfish to relate his own tale of woe when there were so many others in the group who had clearly suffered so much worse. Elizabeth’s hand, bandaged and swollen, rubbed newly raw from her desperation to _keep playing_ , to not let that son of a bitch take away the thing that she loved most, the music that was a _part_ of her….

Foggy swallows and replays his cover story again as he steps into the familiar bar.

Matt is at their usual table. Karen isn’t there, which is a relief in and of itself, because while he can maybe bluff his way around one person he loves, blatantly lying to _both_ of his closest friends is entirely out of the question. Foggy takes a breath and thinks hard about his heartbeat. Steady, easy. Matt will know if he’s lying. (And, God, that’s never going to stop being an awkward mix of really invasive and really cool).

Matt’s eyebrows are doing The Thing when Foggy sits down. “You’re breathing funny.”

“I was running late, so I kind of jogged here. Not everyone is as in shape as you, Matty.”

Throwing out the nickname is a low blow, but it has the predicted effect. Matt’s troubled expression eases, and while Foggy can tell he’s still suspicious, he’s less likely now to jump to (totally correct) conclusions.

“I can smell blood, you know.”

Or not.

Matt has his I’m-Humoring-You-But-Actually-On-My-Way-to-Being-Pretty-Pissed-Right-Now face on, which is always terrible.

“I…cut myself shaving?” Foggy attempts, and winces when his voice raises up in question at the end.

“Foggy,” Matt says, and he leans forward, more intent than angry, so far.

“It’s Hell’s Kitchen, Matt. Shit happens.”

“I am well aware,” Matt drawls. “I can tell it’s nothing life-threatening. I still want to know what happened.”

Right. Matt can hear broken bones, which Foggy doesn’t have. So invasive-cool.

“There were some jerks. We got into a fight. It’s not a big deal.” A tiny sliver of that is actually true, which may be why Matt doesn’t immediately accuse him of being a dirty rotten liar.

“…Did you win?”

Foggy grins. “Yeah.” Kind of.

“Well okay, then. Next time, though…”

“Next time I’ll send out the Bat signal. I get it.”

Matt nods, appeased. For now.

Foggy buys all the drinks that evening. Honestly, it feels a little unfair.

\--

Foggy doesn’t sleep. He tries. He knows sleep is important, and he’s actually a huge fan of the horizontal coma routine, but he can’t do it. He closes his eyes and the whole apartment seems to wash out in a sickly shade of glowing lavender. At one point he feels himself drifting off, just on the cusp of sleep. Then there comes a phantom hand, so tight on his bruised wrist that it aches all over again, and a voice in his ear—sharp, accented, full of snarl—shouts something, a brutal command that he _has_ to obey.

Turns out the late-night cable in Hell’s Kitchen is really shitty. Foggy stares blearily on as a blond woman in pearls tries to sell him some fabulous sapphire earrings. They’re overpriced and gaudy and Foggy actually considers calling in just to hear another human being’s voice.

Which is when his phone rings.

Which is super creepy and makes him yelp, jumping up from his chair in the seconds before he realizes that, oh. It’s just his cellphone. Okay.

“Foggy Nelson.” He sounds more wrecked than he had anticipated, groggy and shaken to the core. He clears his throat and says it again, forcing in so much cheerfulness that it’s _obviously_ fake. Ugh.

“Mr.—uh. Foggy? It’s Malcolm. From group?”

Malcolm is a good guy. Foggy can tell. He had a sad, tempered way about him, but he listened attentively when other’s spoke, and he hadn’t pushed. Foggy was glad to give him his business card, even though he hadn’t quite expected to receive pre-dawn phone calls because of it.

“Hey. What’s up? Do you need help?”

Malcolm laughs, and he sounds a little hysterical. Foggy rushes to his room, pulling proper pants on over his pjs and fumbling for his wallet before he can even think about what he’s doing. “I can be wherever you are in like five minutes,” he assures, speaking rapidly, “Maybe ten. Uh…where are you?”

Foggy commits the address to memory and practically flies out into the streets. He’s relieved to find that the lights in the city are the same as always, not a hint of purple tinge in the corner of his eye.

\--

Foggy really likes the sign in the door. It’s really cool, and it makes him sort of envious, even though their office has a perfectly serviceable sign of its own, now. But, still. Alias. That’s _cool_. Foggy has no idea who ‘Jessica Jones, P.I.,’ is but he really likes her already because of this _really cool_ sign.

When he knocks, he thinks maybe he actually just got the address wrong because no one answers. He knocks again, just to be sure, and then just as he’s getting ready to vacate the premises and maybe try calling Malcolm back to clear things up, the door opens and Malcolm’s head pops out. He looks even more tired than Foggy feels, which is supremely impressive.

“Come in.”

Foggy grimaces as he steps into the office-apartment. Everything reeks of something really astringent. Bleach, layered over the overpowering scent of alcohol. For a moment, Foggy thanks his lucky stars that he hadn’t brought Matt along as he’d briefly considered. If _Foggy_ is so overwhelmed by the stench, it’d knock Matt right on his ass. Good thing Fisk and the other scum of the city don’t know that particular trick. Otherwise, Ms. Jones would find her office being used as an oddly effective Devil’s snare.

“Do you…work here?” Foggy isn’t trying to be nosy, but just a cursory glance around this place makes it pretty obvious that the owner of the name on the door lives alone. Either that or Malcolm is the most relaxed cohabiter ever and doesn’t mind the fact that there are _at least_ five bottles of hard liquor on the floor and enough dust on the window sills to make a whole—herd? Flock?—of bunnies. Malcolm doesn’t seem like the messy type.

“No. My friend.” Malcolm paces around the room. He’s trying to look like he’s picking things up, but actually he’s just fidgeting. Foggy understands that impulse pretty well.

“The one that needs a lawyer, sometimes?”

Malcolm stills and turns to face Foggy, sighing loudly as he runs his hands over his face. “Yeah.”

“Does she”—he’s guessing, but he figures Jessica Jones, P.I. is a likely candidate, here—“need a lawyer now?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” Malcolm groans, pulling at his hair. “I shouldn’t have called you. That was a bad idea. Trish is going to kill me.”

“Trish?” Not Jones, then?

“Another friend.”

“Does she _also_ need a lawyer, sometimes?”

“No. Well. I mean, only if Jessica is involved, probably.”

Foggy hums softly and sits gingerly against the edge of Jones’s desk. “You know you’re not making a lot of sense, right?” He pats the free space next to him on the desk, pushing a stack of files aside to make enough room.

Malcolm sits down without complaint. “I know. I just…if I tell you something, you can’t tell other people, right?”

“Uh, kind of. I mean, you’d have to be my client. And then we attorney-client privileges. But it’s a pretty complex relationship, so I wouldn’t really recommend that you tell me anything if it might be incrimin--.”

“There was a dead body in Jessica’s bed and she wanted to turn herself in and go to supermax but Trish and I decided that was really stupid so Trish cleaned up all the blood and I ditched the body but Jess went after it and now she’s gone to turn herself into the police.”

Foggy blinks. “Wow.”

“Yeah.”

Foggy frowns thoughtfully and turns around, reaching over the monitor on the desk to grab up a nearly-empty bottle of whiskey from where it rests on its side. He kindly offers the bottle to Malcolm first. Malcolm declines and Foggy drains the bottle, shuddering at the burn.

“Okay. Well. Did she kill the guy?”

“No.”

“Did _you_ kill the guy?”

“No.”

“Did Tri--.”

“Kilgrave killed him. I mean. Rueben killed himself. Because of Kilgrave.”

“K-kilgrave was…he was _here?”_ Foggy yelps, practically throwing himself of the table and toward the door. For a moment, everything in his perception is awash with purple hues. His wrist throbs in time with his thundering pulse, and he knows the voice is coming up, he _knows_ but then…

Malcolm isn’t touching him, which is good. He’s talking, though, and even though Foggy can’t make out the words, right now, his voice is so completely different than the voice he expected to hear that it pushes the wave of panic aside. Foggy is surprised to find himself on his knees, sprawled over the hard floor with Malcolm kneeling just out of reach, still talking with a concerned, guilty look on his face.

“—sorry, I shouldn’t have called you, that was so stupid. It’s going to be okay. You’re safe, I promise. He was here, but he’s gone now, and it’s okay, it’s really--.”

“Okay,” Foggy says, and it comes out strangled. “Okay. I’m good. I’m here. It’s fine. Just…warn a person next time, okay?”

Malcolm nods solemnly, the picture of empathy. Foggy heard his story at group. He knows what Malcolm went through. It was awful, so terrible as to be almost beyond comprehension. Malcolm, more than most, understands. That helps.

“All right,” Foggy declares, scrambling back to his feet. “So you’ve got a friend who is taking the fall for a murder she didn’t commit because…why? Did Kil—did Kilgrave tell her to do it?”

“No. She wants to go to supermax to draw him out. She’s going to turn herself in as bait.”

Foggy stares. “That is a really stupid plan.”

Malcolm sighs. “I know. But it’s too late, now. She left. I couldn’t stop her.”

There’s something about the way he says that that seems to indicate there’s more to it. That it’s more than just ‘I couldn’t talk my friend out of this dumb thing because she’s stubborn.’ But Foggy is learning a lot from his new friend Malcolm, and he decides not to push.

“But you called me,” Foggy points out.

“Yeah. Because I can’t call Trish. Not yet. And I don’t…I didn’t know…”

“I get it,” Foggy replies, kindly. “So everything is all, uh, cleaned up, here?”

Malcolm frowns. “Yeah?”

“Good. Let’s go get a drink. My treat.”

\--

It ends up being Malcolm’s treat because Foggy already spent all of his cash on cheap beer not too many hours before.

Malcolm doesn’t drink himself—maybe it’s an addict thing, maybe Foggy should have checked, first—but he seems happy enough to help Foggy imbibe. While Foggy drinks, Malcolm relates the story of Jessica Jones (super strength, apparently—badass!) and her plan to catch Kilgrave in order to save a young woman from a terrible fate. It’s a good story. It’s the kind of thing Matt would love, especially all the parts in which the hero is wracked with guilt and inherently self-destructive. Foggy hopes he gets to meet Jones soon. He plans to introduce her to Daredevil ASAP, Matt’s secret identity be damned. Speaking of…

“Should you be tellin’ me all this stuff?” Foggy inquires, very drunkenly.

Malcolm has the good grace to look a little shame-faced. “Probably not. She already told me once that it isn’t my story to share. I just want to help, though, you know?”

Foggy definitely knows.

Once they move past the current serious stuff, they start swapping life stories. Malcolm and his once-hopeful career in social services. Foggy and his days in law school with Matt, him and Matt leaving Snobby Lawyer Hell for Hell’s Kitchen, a regrettably noble and fiscally inadvisable move. Foggy and finding out Matt’s secret—oops! He shouldn’t have said that—and helping Matt take down the Kitchen’s very own kingpin, who totally sucked, by the way. It all just comes pouring out of him even as all the drinks go pouring into him (until Malcolm quietly-but-firmly cuts him off, anyway).

By the time Foggy has wound down and run out of words, Malcolm is looking at him with an odd, open expression on his face. “You really love Matt, huh?”

Foggy makes a raspberry noise and flails a hand because _duh_ , of course he loves Matt. Matt is his best friend in the universe. Matt is his anchor. Matt is his avocado in crime—or, in the…opposite of crime, actually—Matt is his _soulmate_ , basically. “Yeah. He’s my brother, kind of.”

Malcolm’s head tilts just a little in curiosity. “Just your friend, then?”

And, oh. _Oh_. “Yeah! I had a crush on him, at first. But not anymore. That’d be dumb. Matt’s _extremely_ straight. He’s so straight he’s, like, several rulers—not just one ruler, I mean. Also, I think he’s pretty much married solely to justice, right now. He’s also really Catholic. Which means he’s _extra_ straight.”

Malcolm looks skeptical—more at the Catholic connotations than Matt’s apparent straightness, probably—but he eventually smiles. “So are you? A ruler, I mean.”

Foggy’s eyebrows raise, and it hurts a _lot_ less when he’s _super_ drunk. “My friend, I am so not a ruler. I am. I am a…those things. Straws. I am a swirly straw of not-straightness. I have many loops.” Foggy tosses his arms akimbo to better encompass his raging bisexuality and ends up knocking the mostly empty dish of peanuts to the floor. Luckily, it’s plastic and all it does is bounce and spread shells everywhere.

“You’re really drunk,” Malcolm comments.

Foggy, staring morosely at the scattered peanuts, nods.

\--

Carrying a half-comatose lawyer up to his room could have a lot of really negative implications if Malcolm gets caught, so he tries really hard to be quiet about it. Foggy is heavy and kind of smothering. His whole body rests over Malcolm’s shoulder, and Malcolm has never been very fit to begin with and months of addiction and living off of junk hasn’t helped. Still, they manage to make it, and Malcolm only feels a little sorry as he dumps Foggy unceremoniously onto the only available soft surface—the bed.

“This whole day turned out a lot different than I expected,” Malcolm mutters to himself, going to fetch a clean glass of water and some over-the-counter painkillers. He’s pretty sure his uninvited guest is going to have a hell of a hangover when he wakes up.

As Malcolm fills up the glass, he wonders if he ought to finally update Trish. He also wonders if he should dig up Foggy’s phone and call that Matt guy, instead, just to let him know his friend is okay. He wonders himself in circles about the wisdom and inherent ethics of either option and decides, in the end, not to make any calls at all. It’s the coward’s choice, he knows, but he’s too tired to care.

Malcolm is sitting against the wall, dozing on the floor, when he startles into wakefulness, roused by a sudden shout. For a moment he’s too disoriented to catch on, but then he remembers his guest and Foggy’s state of mind and it all falls together with a lurch. Malcolm is there with a trashcan immediately, wincing in sympathy as Foggy loses nearly fifty-dollars worth of cheap liquor and whatever it was he’d eaten the day before. Foggy retches several more times before pulling back, wild-eyed and red-cheeked, sweaty. It’s a combination of too much alcohol and too much terror, Malcolm figures, and he’s not sure what to do about it except speak soft nonsense until the other man comes back around.

Foggy cries, which is awkward even with lots of hours of training under Malcolm’s belt. It’s just kind of weird, meeting someone in a trauma group that you facilitate and then calling that guy to a crime scene and then buying that guy a lot of drinks and then dragging his prone form to your place and putting him on your bed and then waking up and just, like, sit there while he cries. That sort of scenario never came up in any of his coursework. Actually, there’s probably a lot of stuff in there that would have gotten him a giant ‘F.’

Malcolm asks if he can touch him, and Foggy nods and mutters an affirmative, which is about as much consent as anyone can ask for, so Malcolm slowly rubs circles on Foggy’s back as the other man sobs and chokes a bit and generally has a breakdown on Malcolm’s half-made bed.

It’s weird. But it’s kind of necessary, too.

Foggy sniffs and Malcolm waits. The apartment is really quiet. The whole complex is a lot quieter ever since Rueben…well. There’s just a lot less yelling. Malcolm is glad for the quiet, despite himself. The thought still makes him feel a pang of deep, terrible guilt.

“Oh, man. That sucked,” Foggy whispers. He’s respecting the quiet. Malcolm is glad for that, though the rasp of the man’s whisper is awful, too.

“Nightmare?”

“I guess so. I didn’t know they could be that real.”

“It’s to be expected.”

“I know,” Foggy sighs. He knows what PTSD looks like. He’s a lawyer, for God’s sake, trying to defend some of the most downtrodden, miserable clients in the most godforsaken pit in the whole damn hellish city. He _knows_.

He just didn’t know.

“Where am I?”

“My apartment.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“It’s okay. I just didn’t know where you live.”

“No, I get it. I appreciate it.”

They both fall silent for a while. Things were easier when they first met, when they were strangers. Now they can’t really be considered strangers, anymore. Malcolm’s pretty sure that particular social distinction falls by the wayside after you’ve called someone in the middle of the night to a blood-soaked apartment. Or after you watch someone sleeping off a brewery in your bed. Or…maybe even right in that moment when you watch someone reach out to a crying woman who’s lost her whole reason for living because of one selfish monster of a man with too much power.

“Are we friends?” Malcolm asks, because it feels like a good time to ask.

Foggy’s smile is a little watery but real. “I hope so, otherwise this is just _really_ awkward.”

And that’s when Malcolm realizes that his hand is still making circles on Foggy’s back. He pulls away and Foggy laughs, a nice laugh. Malcolm hopes he’ll get to hear more of that laugh, eventually.

 

END

 


End file.
